The little cattlemen rode in the bed

A beat up pick up truck bed in a big pasture

Cows were bawlin’ and crawlin’ fer hay

The two little kids we were about five if’n a day

The adults drove in four low across those flats

Our Dad’s were up front in a dirty boy dusty cab

They were lookin’ for pink eye and what could be marbled fat

Before we set out for our pick up bed ride

Our fathers gave us the pinchers to knock off a slab of salt

To suckle on a piece of red salt block was cowboy heaven

We were taught it was pleasant

If y’all ate beef we were the world’s peasants

What we did behind the wire gates was our business

We could shoot a cow between the eyes for her mercy

We could help graft her calf onto another mother savin’ lives

The Capitol Cities didn’t tolerate any of us 35-years later

We weren’t politically correct as an advertised John Deere Gator

To be a man was a helluva lot different back then

These Left Wing Tally Whackers wouldn’t even stand

When we took our used motor oil to our old dirt roads

We buried our garbage in our own dumps

When I put down my own dog with my own .22 rifle at 12 years old

We didn’t ever have ESL or social services

We even had our own languages like dirty bath waterds

We had our own propane field burning torches 15 feet long

We had our own fire tender full of 200-gallons of wet water

Woulda been like pissing on a campfire granddad would say

Now I gave up salt blocks and the salt I taste

The dash to the race of a racing mind and wishing she was mine

A woman so refined she isn’t the J.A.G (judge advocate general)

She didn’t care that I had a reason to be cowboy

She didn’t care about the mask, the past, or the double whisky in glass

The salt she tastes is only the tears she knew I wasn’t allowed to cry

She got us level headed and told me,

“Surprise my Indian name is Red Sky.”


Song: Here In The Real World. Alan Jackson

Song: Tough Little Boys. Gary Allen

Song: Ophilia. Lumineers


Just a memory of eating salt blocks in the pasture with my cousin and our Dad’s if they had cows running together at times never making any money back then but they loved not answering to anybody, but the running of the cows up to the pick up to get some hay. They all worked for Hinkle’s & McCoy’s burying telephone cable and my Dad went into business for himself and made a good go of it retiring and having a pot to piss in and a window to throw it out of and my cousins are still punching cattle and screwing people over for rent money. Cowboyin’ don’t pay nuttin’ Hoss.

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